


Handcuffs

by chuckae



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ao3 is too cool for moi, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Mother I might be sorry, Original Fiction, This Is STUPID, idk what i am doing, kind of, ok I am trying to make this my "first" work posted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 22:18:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10448769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuckae/pseuds/chuckae
Summary: Where the world is different and an abstractly antique doll of a man meets the scrumptious recipe of a superhero called "handcuffs".





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first original work that I am posting on this site, so ummmm treat me well!! Even if it might not be so well written ^^

(phr.) au wa wakare no hajimari  
"to meet is the beginning of parting."

 

The way Earl Chantum lived, it was evident something was to disturb the scratchy grind of his everyday life. Wake up, brush teeth, bath, get dressed, go to the cat cafe (not because he particularly liked cats, but because the cat cafe was the nearest cafe he could walk to from his run-down mansion—this "mansion" as he had dreamed to inherit from his parents in his earlier teenage years didn't turn out to be much of a luxury after he had possession of it at the age of eighteen—taking into account that the government had strictly restricted any renovations from taking place, to preserve the 'ancientness' of the city's architecture) down the high end streets of 909, and enjoy at least two cups of coffee until the sun toiled to a boiling sizzle, while sketching or writing up a novel or story or poem or bullshit scribbles into a notebook or on his laptop. (He tried a type-writer once but now it sat (probably rusting) in his work studio at home—like the record-player he had—as a decorative furniture. No other purpose then to make his desk look like an actual writer's desk)(Pretence of the past was something he had learned while rotting in this city for the previous four years—which he once called his dream city for further studies in the college of music and arts—something the city seemed to inevitably thrive in. Not that he complained. It was better then living with his parents in the district of uptown 110). 

Anyway, after his lolling about in "work", juicing out his brain cells for something slightly inspiring or motivating, he would just relax, relax, relax, and then return home. There, he would smoke a few pipes and eat a few fruits and then go out again with his bassoon or oboe to play on the streets for passerby tourists, next to any homeless person he saw, in order to help raise the weight of their ragged hats—Earl knew cruelty like no other and watching them just sitting pathetically in the cold streets, he knew people wouldn't spare more then a glance (the only people interested would be tourists or photographers who would take pictures or videos and just treat it as an "experience" of something terrible they had probably never seen before in their home city—the homeless rascals were treated like statues in a stone temple or paintings in a gallery). 

He wasn't any better of a person, and he didn't play to actually help those homeless rascals who probably did something incredibly shitty to have ended up on the streets of 909—(The new system didn't allow such errors so easily in society even if it was 909)—he did it because he didn't want the city's attraction to be ruined by these homeless rascals (and also because he wanted to practice his music). No matter how deep his misanthropy ran— (a vice he developed after working as a "ghostwriter" for popular public figures who wanted to launch their own books and tick it off their bucket lists—a career he chose just because it seemed like a career and he didn't want the world to know his face like they knew his father's)—he loved the city. 

It was his snow globe, his area of escapade, his bubble of a pipe dream. So, he did that. Everyday. So the streets would be clear and the tourists wouldn't lurk as much. 

After a few hours when the sun mellowed down to an orange sky, he would smoke more pipe on the streets. He would go back home and maybe eat a little bit, usually not. He didn't like to eat. Not because he had an eating disorder, that already passed in his teenage years and years of therapy had "helped" him. However, eating became boring after he became an adult. People would say he was relapsing, but he was already legal and he could choose not to get "help" if he wished. 

Coffee was good though, coffee helped him through everything, and chocolate and sweets were usually his daily snacks. Even though his diet was full of the junkiest shit, he stayed slim because he went out at night to run or to the gym. Doctors would probably say his heart was still suffering but he didn't pay much mind to it. If he enjoyed it why shouldn't he do it until he got tired of it? (That was one of his "theories" among many other—he almost had to write up a whole philosophical book on all his bullshit theories but he doubted any celebrity would stand tall showing off such cynical crap with a straight face). He didn't know why he liked to go to the gym however, it wasn't something anyone would expect from a person like him because even he himself was surprised when he found out that if he didn't work out his tense muscles he couldn't sleep. Otherwise, all the caffeine in his system held him to his peak of hyper-activeness until midnight rolled by. His legs muscles would ache and his eye balls would be painfully alert behind his aching eye lids. So, he went to the gym or just ran around the streets. Then he returned home and watched tv or listened to music until he fell asleep. 

That was his routine. Silent. Just the way he liked. Just like the city. 

In this quiet city, as the rest of the world gave away to modern machinery and glossy glass-house lifestyles, this city became a popular tourist spot for its ancient and traditional architecture and the retro old-fashioned way people still lived here—but the streets were named by numbers and the city was called "nine" like any other city in the country. 

Yet, it stood out. Nine became a landmark of expensive treasures, being that the people themselves were treated as indentures of a doll city. A doll city. That's what it was. And not the pretty porcelain dolls at that, well perhaps there were some of a lot of those good-looking bastards around, but most of them were more of gargoyles and historical but realistic pieces of grey matters. 

Earl Chantum couldn't say much for himself, but he really did love the city. It wasn't very utopic (that's not why he loved it) because it was also a city were criminals found home, half of the people were made of rich inheritors, and lazy old people—(he was half of both)—and the other half were corrupt businessmen and law-breaking bastards. 

However, Earl accepted that as the nature of every balanced ecosystem. You get the good with the bad. Theory number two. 

That was until someone decided to scrunch up his little theory and try to put an end to the "bad" side. That was until the news was filled with the ridiculous new superhero that the media referred to as "hand-cuffs" (after blindfolds, criminals-catcher, face-ask, or even "Super-surgeon"—because he seems to always be wearing a surgical mask on his face on sightings—fell into the file of names that got a cringed-out reaction by the nation and then some popular news anchor had referred to him as Mr. Hand-cuffs and so it stuck) because the dude apparently mailed the highest degree of killers and criminals handcuffed and blindfolded on the doorstep of police stations. Not only in Nine but the rest of the rational numbers weren't spared from the hands of his kinky benevolence. 

And everything seemed irritatingly shiny and itchy in Earl's eyes as the cat cafe started hiring new employees and changed its theme to "cat-cafe" by day and "bar for lazy old men and loud-ass teenagers" by night when all the cats went to sleep as was their brainwashed routine. Earl's order were always taken by an old granny with a southern lilt that shared his love from smoke and caffeine and music. However, Earl started feeling this unease of his balance being tilted unevenly as he saw random employees taking his orders everyday. Yet he was holding up—until someone accidentally served him milked-tea instead of black coffee while he read in his old-fashioned black and white printed newspaper that "What the actual fuck is happening" was the headline that made the nation laugh because of the quirky new vigilante in town. And what the actual fuck, is what he exactly felt like.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank for reading, as you can see it's not the best but I am just writing for the thrill so it was fun writing, and I hope it wasn't too bad?? >


End file.
